He just smiles and says, “You’ll see.”
Chapter 34
On the Friday before Memorial Day, I take my father to brunch at Lorne’s. We’ve decided to accept four supplicants a week during the summer, and our calendar is already booked through Labor Day. We plan to slow down again in the fall, but for now, demand is skyrocketing and I see no reason not to embrace it. I haven’t felt this kind of adrenaline for a long time, and it’s nice to have a sense of momentum. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was depressed for much of the fall and winter—and, let’s be honest, for the last ten years—but now that I wake up looking forward to my days, I realize just how low I had once been. I still haven’t told Nina about our enterprise, but given that she is six months pregnant and due in August, I don’t want to disturb the waters. She is distracted by her own life; and I am finally invested in mine.
We claim our usual booth by the window and Sandy arrives promptly, carrying menus but not bothering to put them down.
“Morning, Arthur, Cricket. Same as always?” She lifts her eyebrows expectantly.
I nod. She knows the drill: two BLTs; coffee for me; ginger beer for him.
She strides off to put in our order. As we wait, we play tic-tac-toe on a napkin. This is a game Dad can still handle, although I sometimes have to give him strategic reminders to ensure that he will win. As I wait for him to mark a wiggly X, Paula comes wafting through the diner’s front door. She is waving a copy ofThe New York Times.
“Extra, extra!” she calls out. “Cricket, you didn’t tell me it was going to be afeature.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, genuinely confused. About a month ago, a reporter had visited us. She said her story was a travel piece about the Adirondacks, and she wanted to include a little mention of the oracle. Her photographer took a portrait of my dad, and I showed her around and explained our process to her. Before she left, my father gave her a prophecy—he saw a career shift in her future: a stint in Hollywood, more money, an Italian car; he warned her to shore up who she was before fame devoured her—and then she went on her way.
Paula slaps the paper down in front of us, and on the cover of the travel section, I see the headline:
The Oracle Will See You Now
In the heart of the Adirondacks, a local Nostradamus is putting a little-known town on the map.
As I begin to scan the article, Sandy sidles up with our plates and cranes her neck to see what I’m reading.
“Oh, that,” she says. “Yeah, that reporter came poking around in here.”
“Did you talk to her?” I ask, but my question answers itself. On the second page of the article, there is a photo of Sandy leaning against the counter at Lorne’s. As I rush through the rest, I see that a number of local business owners in town have weighed in on the “phenomenon” that is the oracle at Catwood Pond.
Deb of Deb’s Depot is quoted, saying: “Can he see the future? F-ck if I know. But Idoknow that my sales are up 500 percent since last summer.” There’s a photo of a rack displaying T-shirts and mugs emblazoned with the words:I CAME ALL THE WAY TO THE ADIRONDACKS AND ALL I GOT WAS A LIFE-CHANGING PROPHECY.
I’m gobsmacked, scared, and delighted all at the same time. Onone hand, this article seems to validate that our project is not just a flight of fancy. On the other hand, it feels like a level of exposure that none of us anticipated.
“I knew it,” says Paula. “I knew we were onto something.”
I turn to my father, who is trying to follow the conversation. “Dad, do you understand that this is about you?”
“Me?” He looks more closely at the paper, and I point to his portrait.
“Well, would you look at that!” He grins. “I’ve never looked better.”
“It’s a story about how people are coming to see you for advice. About the effect it’s having on the town,” I say. “You’re sort of a celebrity.”
“Ha!” My father laughs explosively at the idea. Celebrity is the last thing he has ever courted, but it has found him nonetheless.
Then I see my name, and I zero in on a line about me:
While my prophecy is given, the oracle’s daughter Cricket looms quietly in the background. When I ask her about her role in the operation, she insists, “I’m just his caregiver.” But whether martyr or manipulator, she runs a tight ship, ushering me out the door as soon as the oracle shows signs of fatigue.
“‘Martyr or manipulator’?” I read aloud. “God, are those my only options?”
Paula laughs so hysterically that my father catches her enthusiasm and guffaws as well. Curious to see what the online version of the article is like, I fish for my phone in my bag, but as soon as I find it, my screen lights up with an incoming call. It’s Nina.
I excuse myself and walk out to the parking lot to answer it. Though I know better, I find myself hoping thatThe New York Timesis somehow inaccessible in Sweden.
“Hi…”
“Cricket.” I can tell from her tone that she has seen the article.
